To This End
by LCFC
Summary: After the Demon is dead What do the boys do? Can they be normal again?


**To This End**

And so, suddenly, it was over. The demon was gone; all those that it had ensnared were dead and those who were, unknowingly, its innocent victims were saved.

Dean lay slumped against the wall of the warehouse, there was blood on his clothes, but it was not his blood or Sam's, so he couldn't find it in himself to care. Sam crawled so that he could lie beside Dean, long fingers tangling in his brother's shirt, hazel eyes wide and questioning. Dean smiled, a weary, battle worn smile "Yeah Sam" he hissed "It really is over"

They went back to the seedy motel, one in a long line of seedy motels and no different from the rest. Sitting on the lumpy beds, facing each other, they looked into each others eyes and looked for joy, for exhalation, for victory, but all they saw was resigned pain.

Morning came and they went to their usual diner for breakfast. Dean was eating eggs, just as he always did, every morning and Sam was slumped over his pancakes. Dean looked at his brother's bowed head and saw, impossibly, the threads of grey that now ran through his unruly brown locks. He rubbed his hands through his own rough stubble and wondered what they looked like; two broken men, old before their time.

Dean washed and polished the Impala till it shone bright ebony against the dullness of the sky. He cleaned the interior, throwing out all the old food wrappers, discarded newspapers, pamphlets. He stared at the weapons in the trunk and considered what he might do with them. His back aching as he bent over, fingering a knife here, a gun there. Discontented he turned and went back into the motel room where Sam lay, boneless and limp, on the bed. Dean stood staring at his brother, his chest tight; he had imagined countless times what his feelings would be when he killed the demon, but he never imagined, not for one moment, that all he would feel would be numb.

He wondered what they might do next. He wondered if Sam would want to go back to school, like he had always said. Hell Sam was thirty-six years old and Dean was near to hitting forty. Even if Sam completed his course, graduated, he would be nearing retirement age before he could even consider earning big money. Dean hissed and sat on his own bed, spreading the contents of his wallet on the coverlet; fake ids, fake credit cards, and grocery tokens; screwed up paper with waitresses phone numbers scrawled on them. What did he have to show for his life? What sort of job could he do now? Hunting the supernatural was hardly going to be top of everyone's resume, but he didn't have any other skills and he wondered how he had lost his way so badly.

He woke up to the sound of Sam's sobs, loud, piteous, harsh. He went over to the bed, stumbling about in the dark, arms around his brother's trembling shoulders "I can't do this" wet, salty tears dampen Dean's tee-shirt "I can't do this anymore"

"You don't have to Sam" Dean clutches at his brother's arms, trying to steady him "It's over"

"It'll never be over" Sam sobs out bitterly and Dean's heart sinks and stings at the irony of that statement.

Dean drives in silence, not even wanting to turn on the radio. Sam sits beside him, his head pressed against the shining and clean Impala window.

"Where to Sammy?" Dean makes an attempt at lightness and his brother turns, his face so pale and so bitter, Dean can barely breathe

"Fuck Dean – I'm not fucking Sammy – Sammy was a chubby twelve year old – I'm never going to be Sammy again" he slumps back in the seat and Dean turns on the radio, figuring that crap country music is going to be better than this bitter silence.

"We could buy a house" Dean hates the lumpy bed now more than he hates life itself, which is saying something. He is looking at real estate, his fingers tracing down the long lines "You know – get a home base"

"Yeah – with what?" Sam snorts "Fresh air and sunshine?"

"We could rent then" Dean pushes and Sam shrugs "Somewhere good in the country – Texas maybe" Sam shrugs again and it's as good as a yes as far as Dean is concerned.

It's surprisingly easy to fake references and the ranch is so run-down and filthy that Dean wonders what their $300 deposit actually covers. Still the air is fresh and the grass is green and there is nothing round them but sky. At night, Dean runs round the house with is EMF meter and lays salt lines. Sam snorts again "The only thing likely to come to our door is bears Dean" he laughs, wryly, but it's a laugh and Dean will take anything these days.

They have hardly any furniture, neither of them can cook anything beyond spaghetti and eggs, the roof leaks and the attic is overrun with rats and birds, but it is the first home that they have ever had and it feels better, right somehow. Dean wonders if he might go stir crazy, with nothing to strive for, nothing to hunt. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't feel the heavy hand of evil around him anymore and he supposes it should feel better than it does. Sam sits and reads and looks old, he doesn't have nightmares anymore or visions – Dean guesses this is because his visions were tied to old yellow eyes and that son of a bitch is dead and gone – but he still doesn't sleep much. Dean looks sometimes, at the bowed man who seems smaller, older, broken and wonders what ever happened to his Sammy, his Sam.

Spring brings flowers and fruit and the scruffy mongrel to their door. It looks like a terrier of some kind, flea-bitten and mangy with brown eyes that plead for food. Sam feeds it tuna from a can and it comes back for more. Sam decides it needs washing and it allows large hands to pet and clean it; Sam buys it a collar and calls it Meg "Because she was a mangy bitch too" and Dean sees his brother smile for the first time since they wasted the demon.

Summer is hot and sticky and they find a pond not far from the ranch that just begs for them to swim in it. There's no one around so they bathe naked, all long limbs and wild hair. They go brown and Dean is covered in freckles. He feels it might be undignified for someone who is now officially forty, but for the first time in, what seems like decades, he doesn't ache, doesn't feel empty. He feels like a boy again and he wonders if he is at the start of his life rather than the end.

Autumn comes and gradually slips into winter. The roof is fixed and the ranch is warm. Halloween brings a few trick and treaters and they stay and eat popcorn and fuss Meg. Dean watches Sam as his brother hands out cookies and candy to the eager children, explaining patiently that they shouldn't ram their fingers into Meg's mouth. That night Sam throws himself on to Dean's bed "I want to become a teacher" he states and Dean stares at him, perplexed "There's a school not far from here that'd take me – Stanford have said they'll send the transcripts and references" Sam nudges Dean with his elbow "Are you listening?"

"Yeah" Dean feels his mouth turn up at the edges and he gazes at Sam, wondering if the grey hair he once saw was a trick of the light, because he sure is convinced that his Sammy, his Sam, is creeping slowly back and he wants to hold on to that fact.

Epilogue

The ranch is festooned with Christmas lights; tacky and bright; Santa and his reindeer perch unevenly on the roof and there is a blow-up snowman leering to the side on the porch.

Inside the place echoes with laughter; Sam's graduation party is in full swing and there isn't room to swing either of their cats. Dean didn't think he'd like academic chicks but he is impressed with both their brains and their bodies and he leans against the sink, trying to engage one of them in conversation, whilst keeping an eye on Sam.

His brother is flushed and just a beer away from a karaoke session. His hair is still too damn long and he looks just a little scruffy in faded jeans that Dean was convinced he used to wear when they were hunting, but Sam is smiling, really smiling and this is really the end of one story and the beginning of another…….


End file.
